


Knowhere

by Mar_tin_can



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Angst, Caleb Widogast-centric, Dissociation, Flashbacks, Gen, Hallucinations, I'm just a lowly begger don't mind me, POV Caleb Widogast, POV Third Person, Self-Harm, Self-Mutilation, Warning: Trent Ikithon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-05
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:27:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24015919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mar_tin_can/pseuds/Mar_tin_can
Summary: "Becoming this flame's feast was welcomed, a moth bathing in the allure of his apologies answered. He(Caleb) knew actions birthed by the trusting of false Gods earned him being consumed by a ravenous sun, he dared to be grateful for the burning he anticipated."This story plays through an evening's events in the Vergesson Sanatorium that would drench 11 years in an ignorant hopelessness for our particularly sad Wizard.
Relationships: Trent Ikithon & Caleb Widogast, Una Ermendrud & Caleb Widogast
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	Knowhere

**Author's Note:**

> I've had bits of this writing for forever tucked away but when bringing it all together and truly making a story from it I discovered that the ambiance of @annathenewt's art truly held ramifications in what feeling I wanted my work to exploit. I really do thrive and love creating dark works like this but for some further insight here's a link to the particular comic of theirs that existed perpetually in a corner of my mind:  
> https://twitter.com/annathenewt/status/1207400962941476870
> 
> Also, they actually have their own DnD campaign, "Awakening" on Twitch.tv/brutalbri !
> 
> Well, thank you and please enjoy yourself!

His muscles felt bloated beneath its constricting, wax paper skin. A fanatic pulse provoked his crazed digits to gallop across his forearm’s stiff hide with erratic impulses. The consciousness and, what some may dub, madness argued between whether to free the tissue or continue its restriction for the outer world’s gain. His fingernails had mountain ranges carved into them by carnivorous teeth, the ridges began to upturn the flaking terrain to make gruesome graves for lost patrons when a toll sounded.

“How are you?” The inquiry whistled through a grasping breath that rattled the purveyor’s lungs, the tone’s strength crinkled like a single candlelight in the wind as it slumped to its punctuation however he knew not to defy it. Rationality clutched onto a wild horse’s reins, intangible knuckles reflecting a dead man’s coloring whilst habit forced air into and beyond his ribs. It felt as if the calcium cage were hollow though. The breaths would swim the swampy insulation, degrading the privacy of haggled flesh stones before retreating from the musk like trapped light from a lantern. 

Raped vocal cords creaked at an attempt to gargle out a syllable, to swish it between cheeks amongst iron. When flexing snakes suddenly penetrated visibility and began slithering through identical brethren towards him from no source, this new presence curdled the motivation to vocalize a thought beyond the phlegm of his internal piping. These slinking serpents slipped over one another towards him in lilting knots that possessed power in a hypnotizing waltz.

These tubes of gore and muscle traveled in tranquility for a few ticks before one's craning neck snapped to the east crudely. Then it and its kin all began cracking into odd angles, a cartilage percussion cackling into the room as the shapes were forced into contortions, a ghastly fungus sprouting along the reptiles. At a methodical pace canyons were raked between scales with fluffy dandelion fuzz clogging the lacerated meat. For a moment they looked to be but toys long forgotten, as if a child had foolishly tugged on a loose string that tore apart what was beloved. But said image was quickly gone, this contagion feverishly skittered over its meal until these snakes were, now, frayed stems of yarn. 

The mucus wetting his breath felt as though it were moving along the tubing of his interior, it felt as though leeches were writhing along his esophagus, maws suctioned to vines of iron until their vessel had the nerve to cough. This grotesque imagery caused habit to slip momentarily before quivering orbs glazed the trail of thread all the way to the sobering sight of a foreign woman crocheting in front of him. Copper hay rivaled an oceans current, cupping the figure's chin like the crescent moon in a sky not muddied by clouds. There was no discerning anything beyond rusted hair and spindly fingers that danced with needles and despite this mystery; mania attempted to persuade him that he knew who was before him.

_ She is a pretty one. _

It was a fleeting thought, a rarity really, ignited by an adolescent curiosity that clasped the edges of his features and dropped his head to the side to spy the woman from a new, obtuse angle. Whispers of his hair licked his naked collarbones, an aged brew of several greases and fluids made the strands conjoin and lay heavier atop his shoulder. 

_...A pretty...One. _

An amber star then lit a strand of the woman's mane drawing his gaze, the undercarriage of his eyes were dusted by smoke and smeared charcoal induced by his, seemingly, perpetual exhaustion. The foreign light teased him to shy away from it's being but he found that he was too entranced by this biological candlewick to practice trepidation, a kindling of long forgotten intrigue being nursed back to health by the stranger before him.

The modest, dainty flame lapped over itself on its strand of hair, leaving shriveling fibers of thin, crusty length behind it. It felt like the string leading to a bomb and that made ravenous jitters dent his sternum with their force, there was a pleading for him to realize something, to consider something, something, anything and yet an all-knowing beast of mist still diluted him.

_ She is...A... _

_ She is one. _

He can figure it out _ , I am a patient man.  _ For a moment he could not be restrained from fumbling because of the idea; _ am _ , how long has it been since he was an 'am' rather than a 'was', a man and not the infinity of smog. The mane of a wet canine whipped his temples, splattering against a pasty canvas whilst his neck cracked from side to side to rid himself of the distraction, he was close. 

The fire was nearing the woman's scalp, the pace of her hands increasing in their task of crocheting what seemed like a scarf when a retched scent of charring skin raped his nostrils. He had the belittling sensation that his time to reap his answers was dwindling. The joints of his fingers knocked into their brothers and ached beneath his body when his shoulders sagged forward in physical desperation to barricade himself inwards. Heaps of air pillaged past his scabbed lips, the flesh now dinner for fidgeting teeth as he waged destruction on the remaining clouds that obscured his destination. Fluttering ghosts tickled his earlobes with scraping nails that held no sin like his, his nail-beds were where grout and filth took their rest, his were yellowed like the antiquated tomes he had once flipped through. 

_...One... _

The imagery was a memory that owed him a minor victory, he had to be close to his prize. 

_ One. One. One. On-. _

_ Una. _

_ " _ Mother?" Was all he could gasp.

_ The uncommon delicacy of leaves made normally naked limbs of wood talkative on the breeze, the resting of the sun caused the greenery to glisten with the sun's golden shawl draping itself over the land. Coddling groves were tucked away in the tender foliage, the wild barrier concealing the source of songbird melodies that accompanied the jostling wind.  _

_ A sanctuary of sound with unadulterated acoustics for the climate to release its expanse among. This orchestra of nature was never to be domesticated, a ruler under the noses of those who braved to live through its bitter winters and scarce summers. The intangible entity familiarized its inhabitants with struggling but it could forgive when a deep, concerning thump interrupted the scene with the whistling of a cry's crescendo not slow behind.  _

_ Bren is a boy dressed in the neighbors' son's clothing, he still hasn't grown into them but they were what he was given for the spring. A square patch of wool his mother had bandaged the knee of one pant leg which made his skin itch even now while he glared at a condensed network of cracks on the window of the Ermendrud's backdoor. Was it fear or the pain in his head that made an ocean's tide create trails on his cheeks? A shadow then appeared in front of him protecting him from looking longer, he felt the loving, familiar texture of her apron on the back of his hand when his mother descended into a crouch before him.  _

_ "If you couldn't notice the glass before Schatzi," she could barely speak, tufts of laughter rippling her sentence before she could continue, "I'm sure this crack your forehead gave it will do a bang up job of telling you it's there now, huh?" Mother's fingers gingerly slid from cradling his wet cheeks towards his hairline and in a well practiced motion she split the red sea's with consoling fingers, dragging her nails along his scalp fluently in repetition. She murmured assurances until she laid her hands to rest against the nape of her son's neck, fingers creating succulent dimples across his freckled skin as she prodded lightly like she were the cat making biscuits on her tumbles of fabric.  _

A hollowing yearning drowned his insides in a stuffy cotton, a plea birthed by lonesomeness pleading with the spilled ink that shrouded the woman's face to disappear. His lips were wrung thin in concentration to retain any glimpse he may have stolen of her face in his brief memory, however he seemed to note everything but. One of his socks drooped at his ankle rather than pulled taught onto his calf, he heard a fly drone past them but he hadn't seen it, the world outside had been less green and more rich with the sun's light. 

The recollection was a catalyst that took no qualms in stirring sanity's decay, after the fleeting marriage of two eyelids the traversing modest flame on the woman's head took to her entire thicket of hair in a cascading eruption. His world became more golden with a demon's luminescence, his eyebrows making the skin fold on his forehead as they sprung upwards with his gaze tortured by the view before him. Gallows of flame housed wailing scorned ghosts whose features were long in oranges and reds. However, a wished upon star finally bestowed him recognition, the blaze that crackled and pronounced death offered charity in expelling the shade on the figure before him.

_ Mother...  _

She is a moment of salvation, a shrine that cradled him like the laundry that had just been brought in after having been engrossed in the sun's girth for hours. His hunched bones that were so ruthlessly wedged together no longer popped, the cold sweat in his arteries disappeared, and those forsaken crystals finally stopped moving. Mother's hands were fluent in any language and never stuttered in their work despite the sudden wildfire framing her serene expression, her lithe fingers still weaved yarn masterfully with itself. He wanted to feel them dip into his neck again, he wondered if she would still smell of their garden,  _ please, oh Gods I ask for nothing and deserve nothing but please, let me touch her.  _

Scuffed knees scraped themselves over a grating brick as mere will searched for an ally of strength, he did not need the source, he would settle for its synonym, anything that would help him get to his mother.  _ Please, please... _ He could read the plot of his mother's hands, offer a reason for every chapped callous, weathered scar, or hanging nail. With every expounded detail exposed by a dancing candlelight he also knew the man he is more as well, knew he held no right to this miracle, was tortured by the familiarity a flame had for his mother. But, maybe he would know what to do if he could, just, get to her. 

The riptide crested his cheeks once more, emotions tyranny drawing him into submission and left the rivers to dribble from his chin. A pathetic huff left him when he conjured the might to raise his arm upwards, a phantom sleeve of stone forced extra effort. Dust and grime littered the wrinkles of his hand, the lines receding into shallow fingers that quivered like a deer's first steps, fluttering to touch the sturdiness of his mother's. 

Said hands then paused their craft, halting the dance between thread and needle. Her hair still churned in a glittering presentation of flame, brilliant fairies dazzling the void above her with gaudy stars that were extinguished quickly in their ascent. Then, a lake's reflection lifted to view him in return, she had a doll's lashes hovering over radiant crows feet that her humble smile always extenuated. Mother wore it then, the wonderful sight of her two front teeth peeking out from her flower petal lip drugged him in a greed that always needed to see it. 

Bren is a boy, the heartbeat in his forehead feels like it is now causing his entire essence to throb with the organic rhythm. His chest heaves upwards in assistance to the pants he threw up, his intentions and spirit are so easily kidnapped by a sweet grin. 

_ "Now don't you cry, I have my own magic." _ He resides in a dry hue interlocking the past and present and the woman before him was both a shaded silhouette and a wonder who leaked gleaming infernos while she descended as a mirror to him onto her knees. She bent into his personal bubble but fear never graced his heart, his mother's flame was not his own. It offered condolences and warmth, it did not dress in an executioner's garb like his was fashioned into. 

Becoming this flame's feast was welcomed, a moth bathing in the allure of his apologies answered. He knew actions birthed by the trusting of false Gods earned him being consumed by a ravenous sun, he dared to be grateful for the burning he anticipated. It was soon that the onslaught of light tormented his irises too much and forced thin eyelids to obscure the image of his mother's nearing face behind the flickering thrum of a paper lantern. He did not smell the singeing of his beard nor felt gases begin bursting across his face in gurgling bubbles. No, instead, tender skin dabbed his forehead with its plush texture. 

Bren cheated a glance no matter the blaze's ire towards his vision, eyes that were like a sky crowded with clouds of heavy rain straining to take in an image to accompany the sensation; which let him bear witness to his mother's lips treating him to a kiss.  _ Of course, her magic.  _ He feigned ignorance to compete with the logical portion of his consciousness that knew her lack of spell-casting abilities instead fighting to believe it would take his pain away like when he were her boy, her Schatzi. 

_ Where were they?  _

"Mo-" It seemed the syllable frightened the sunlight into vanishing, the radiant vibrancy extinguished abruptly without any splashing of water, slayed into shadow. But he was assured company by the pressure remaining between the fair brush of his eyebrows. His thought wasn't scheming as an enemy and with ease his eyes crept out from behind their delicate blinds to investigate the cool touch that pressed into his skull. 

Now a man of urine skin dominated the land ahead of him, he is shapeless beneath the laden cloth drooping from his willowy build. Bren could then discern the feeling of keratin threatening to pierce into him rather than his mother's charitable lips assuring him of refuge. The man's air commandeered possession, an ownership that antagonized Bren's mentality and demanded he sit straighter. Spools of grey fell from the jaundiced man's scalp and lapsed over the curve of his shoulders in a faux righteousness whilst he murmured in an alien speech.  _ Wait. _

"Master Ikithon." Bren's flesh is a flexible dough for his master, the digging of the man's digits into his skin branded him with his fingerprints like he were his mule. Master Ikithon's touch then firmly swirled in a circular motion that rippled his subject's skin promising a finality Bren held no concept of before retreating. An unsettling, ill smoke drifted away, the index and middle finger with a thumb pinching the crease between them towed the fishing line of haze with slow meticulousness as though they were carrying a great weight. 

Then clarity was tackled with treason and knowledge from faraway fields was shackled in steel bracelets that held no charm and dragged chains, gagged with its existence as the perpetrator. Bre-,  _ uh...Wait...  _ he...Felt beetles begin burrowing into his wrists, shoving past his rigid tendons and scurrying through thawing meat that slushed into rotten puddles under their thorny feet. They needed out.

There was a nothingness that couldn't be acknowledged, nails chalky on mutilated scabs that made up continents on the forearms of a hollow suit. 

“Good.” Was that man’s response. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so dearly for reading through my convoluted, metaphysical stylings. 
> 
> Be kind to yourself, peep me on instagram or twitter under @mar.tin.can if you want to geek out together. \\(o3o)/
> 
> Leave behind your thoughts, I pray for assurances and opinions!


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